


Safe Haven

by AnnoyinglyCute, eeyore9990, Loup_Aigre, Michicant123



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, BAMF Erica, BAMF Stiles, Big Bang Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Digital Art, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, First Kiss, Gifset, M/M, Prince Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnoyinglyCute/pseuds/AnnoyinglyCute, https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loup_Aigre/pseuds/Loup_Aigre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michicant123/pseuds/Michicant123
Summary: Derek's life as Prince of Hale was nothing but charmed... Until one night, when he was a mere nineteen years old, Gerard and Katherine Argent, welcomed into the castle under banner of friendship, slaughtered nearly the entirety of his family.  Now, two years later, Derek is finally free and running for his life.  Luck favors the unfortunate prince by leading him straight into the home of seven courageous young rebels, one of whom might just prove to be the love of his life.A Fairy Tale AU





	1. Fic by Eeyore9990

**Author's Note:**

> A very special thank you to the mods of the Sterek Big Bang for putting this on and to [Dr.Girlfriend](http://drgrlfriend.tumblr.com) and [Crossroadswrite](http://crossroadswrite.tumblr.com) for their excellent beta skills.

Derek ran through the forest as fast as his sore, dirty, battered bare feet could take him, uncaring of the branches that grabbed at his tattered clothing and sliced into his cheeks and arms. He just _ran_.

 

From behind him came the sound of the King's hounds — though not the King's anymore, not since the Evil Princess-turned-Queen Katherine had killed her own father and taken over the kingdom. The baying came closer and Derek pushed harder, his heart pounding fast and furious in his chest while every breath felt like shards of ice burning their way into his lungs. 

 

But still he ran.

 

And ran.

 

When he could run no more, when his legs literally gave out beneath him, he tumbled down a small hill, rolling right up under a bush at the base of a huge oak tree and there he lay, vision dimming as his body gave over to exhaustion.

 

He was done.

 

And when the hounds caught him... he'd see his family again.

~*~

Waking up to the bright light of day filtering through the thick canopy of trees overhead was as much a shock to Derek as it appeared to be to the excitedly chittering squirrel that leapt a few feet up the trunk of the wide oak when he opened his eyes.

 

Blinking a few times at the odd sight, Derek winced as every muscle in his body began to wake as well, throbbing dully with pain from the overexertion of the previous night. Early morning? He had no idea, knew only that he'd finally managed to wrest the bars of his cell open far enough for him to slip free and flee the castle.

 

He hadn't thought his escape would be _immediately_ noticed, but such was his life. At least, such was his life since King Gerard and Princess Katherine had come to the Hale Kingdom one night two years hence under banner of friendship. Since they'd slaughtered the King and Queen in their beds and systematically killed every member of the Hale family barring Derek and his sister Laura.

 

Laura, who had been the first to fall when Princess Katherine had become Queen, her pureness and beauty a threat to the evil woman. It was that night that Katherine had turned to Derek, her hands still red with his sister's blood, and smiled at him, her teeth looking sharp and monstrous in the glittering light of a thousand candles.

 

 _"When we wed,"_ she'd promised, eyes gleaming madly, _"the uprisings will end."_

 

Derek, who'd been listening to Laura's doomed plans for escape since the night of their initial arrest and imprisonment, set immediately to work trying to force the bars of his cell. It had taken more than a fortnight of working at them, but he'd finally managed to weaken the metal and bend them in such a way that he was able to wrench himself free.

 

And now, here he was. Alone in the forest surrounding the castle, being lectured at by a squirrel. 

 

Derek sighed and pushed with weak and shaky arms until he was sitting in a mostly upright position, leaning heavily on the tree behind him. Something hard bouncing off his head made him wince and look up, seeing the squirrel still clinging to the tree with three feet, but much further up. In its fourth little paw was a nut... very like the one that had been lobbed at Derek's head mere moments before.

 

Arching an eyebrow, Derek reached down and plucked up the nut that had been thrown at him. "I'll have you know," he said, lips wobbling into a half-hearted smile. "I'm hungry enough that I could eat this, shell and all." 

 

The squirrel edged down, chittering again, until it was within touching distance. Amazingly, it hopped down onto Derek's broad — but nearly emaciated — shoulder, dropping the other nut into his lap as it did.

 

Exhausted as he was in both heart and body, Derek felt tears spring to his eyes at what he could only see as the first bit of true kindness he'd experienced since the night his family was killed. "Thank you," he offered in a whisper as that was all the voice he could force past the knot in his throat.

 

The squirrel tickled his neck with its tail before leaping to the ground and running a few feet away.

 

"Don't go!" Derek called, feeling all at once how horribly alone he was. 

 

The squirrel stopped and looked back, chittering again in a way that seemed to tell him to get off his lazy arse and follow it.

 

So. He did.

~*~

"Heigh hoooo…" Stiles started to sing in a warbling voice, only to wince when he felt a sharp, stinging slap to the back of his head. "Ow!"

 

"Shut up, Stilinski!" Jackson snarled from further down the shaft, his arm muscles bunching as he swung his ax in search of a vein of ore.

 

From beside him, Lydia just glared, shaking out her hand before chipping away at her own section of rock. "Stop with the incessant singing, Stiles. Not only is it incredibly off-key, but it's drawing unwanted attention from the guards as well. Attention we _don't need_ , today of all days."

 

Wiping his eye against his shoulder after a tiny fleck of the wall flew into it, Stiles asked, "Today? What's different about today?"

 

"Didn't you hear?" Scott asked from behind him, the space between them so small they occasionally elbowed each other whilst working. "They say the prince escaped."

 

Stiles felt something in his gut clench as his blood ran cold. Cold _er_. It was already fairly chilly this deep in the mountain. "Are we sure that's what happened, or did… _she_ kill our last true Hale?"

 

Lydia made a considering noise before Boyd, working further along on Scott's side of the tunnel said, "She wouldn't want to seem incompetent. That would be worse, for us to think that. To her, anyway."

 

"Oy!" a guard shouted from the entrance, thankfully far enough away that they couldn't actually _see_ who was talking. "That's enough of yer blathering. Get to work or there'll be no breaks for water and bread."

 

Erica, never one to let the group's chatter get in the way of their overarching goals, just slipped a bit of silver ore between her lip and jaw and kept on hammering, keeping pace with an equally-silent — and bulging-cheeked — Isaac.

~*~

Limping along behind the squirrel, Derek looked back in amazement at the curious little parade of woodland creatures that were following them. There was a fox and its kit, both cocking their heads at him every time he turned around, a deer further back that nimbly skittered toward the closest cover of brush, and under the deer hopped a fat, gray bunny. There were even a few birds watching from the trees that looked suspiciously like the ones he'd seen the last time he turned to check behind him.

 

Facing forward again, he shook his head in bemusement, even as his belly let out a fierce growl and his feet protested. He wanted to stop, or even just pause a moment to collect some of the berries that grew thick on the bushes around them, but when he'd tried before, the fox had leapt forward, snapping its teeth near his hand and the squirrel had nearly screeched at him. A warning? Perhaps. 

 

After all, what did a fallen prince know of strange berries?

 

His stomach growled again and he tried desperately not to turn and stare longingly at the rabbit. He was nearly certain he'd be able to dress and cook it — he'd seen it done often enough when on the march with his father's soldiers back when he'd had a father with soldiers to command.

 

But the squirrel let out an exasperated squeak that took his mind off his belly and put it firmly back where it belonged: following that bushy tail through the forest.

 

It wasn't long before something about the very nature of the forest around them seemed to change. It grew more open, a bit brighter, like the trees were… thinning.

 

And they were. 

 

Derek let out a low gasp as he stepped around a tree and came upon a clearing, wide enough that the trees no longer touched at their tops, allowing a beam of dazzling sunlight to shine down on a small, thatch-roofed cottage. The squirrel raced ahead, circling up the wooden post that held up a portion of the overhanging edge of the roof. When it came to a stop near the top, it gave him a look of such profound satisfaction — with itself, of course — that Derek could only let out a hoarse chuckle.

 

"Thank you, Sir Squirrel," he said, limping forward and offering up a finger to the squirrel. He allowed it to reach out one tiny paw, grasping onto his finger and lifting it to peer curiously at the entire thing, turning his hand this way and that.

 

When it finally grew bored, the squirrel dropped his hand and scampered down the railing, leaping nimbly onto the sill of an open window before disappearing into the darkened depths of the cottage. 

 

Wrinkling his brow, Derek stepped forward and rapped on the thick, wooden door with knuckles littered with scabs and bruises from his harrowing escape. When no response came, he knocked again and called out a gruff, "Hello? Is anyone within?"

 

Still there was no sound, so Derek reached down and grasped the door handle, giving it a cursory nudge to see if it would open. It did, swinging wide as if the door was hung just the tiniest bit crooked. Derek poked his head inside and looked around, seeing a mass of furniture all crammed into the tiny cottage.

 

A table with two long, wobbly benches placed either side of it. A large counter near the window with a sink, obviously where whoever lived in the cottage prepared their meals and cleaned the stack of mismatched dishes he could see laying on edge to dry. A basket with a cloth thrown haphazardly over the top showed Derek a crust of bread, and without thinking, he hobbled his way toward it, taking a piece and sinking his teeth into it before he froze.

 

He'd just stolen bread from some… family, by the looks of it. Feeling guilt rising within him, he went to set the bread down, only to see that his filthy hands had already dirtied the crust and the large bite was quite noticeable.

 

Oh well, nothing for it but to finish what he'd started and beg forgiveness of the family when they returned.

 

Taking the bread with him, Derek explored deeper into the cottage. There were hooks all over the walls for hanging clothing, patched items limply dangling from quite a few. A huge stone hearth with a banked fire just waiting to be stoked sat in the middle of the back wall, a pot of water hanging from an iron bar. And there were… Derek looked, counted, and counted again to be sure.

 

Seven beds, all crammed in here and there. Seven _tiny_ beds, barely a third the size of the ones at the castle. These were only about as big as the sleeping mat he'd been allowed in his cell. Four of them were pushed together in two sets, to make two slightly larger beds, but even still they weren't as big as Derek's bed had once been.

 

And at that, miniscule in comparison to his parents' bed.

 

The bread in Derek's stomach turned to rock as a horrible thought occurred to him, and he cursed softly to himself before looking back toward the door, where the creatures who had been following him through the forest were peering inside quizzically. With no one else to talk to, Derek found himself speaking aloud to them as if they could understand him.

 

"I didn't mean to take their food. Only I was so _hungry._ But this cottage is so small and the beds are so tiny… This house must be where children live. I'm a beast, no better than a monster to take precious food from tiny children." Derek sank onto one of the beds, pulling his feet up and tucking them under himself as he pictured a child going hungry all because he'd been so selfish and impulsive.

 

But as he sat there, his belly slightly sated for the moment, his eyes grew heavy and he yawned, big and wide. "I'll take a nap. And when I wake up, I'll… I'll find some food to replace what I took."

 

Curling over onto his side, Derek placed his head upon a soft, sun-scented pillow, and fell into the first restful sleep he'd had in years.

 

And perhaps it was simply a dream that two birds flew through the window and laid a blanket over him to keep him warm.

~*~

"Someone ate the bread!" Jackson growled from the 'kitchen', having been drawn to the basket upon arriving and noticing the cloth covering it had been removed.

 

"Yes, well," Scott said, pointing to the bed in the corner. " _Someone_ 's sleeping in my bed."

 

"Well, the good news is," Stiles called from the doorway where he and Erica were counting up the day's pilferings, "there aren't any chairs to be broken."

 

"Shut up, Stilinski!" Jackson snapped, lobbing one of the lopsided rolls at him. 

 

Stiles caught it easily, tearing a bit off with his teeth before he grinned, saying around the mushy bread in his mouth, "Well, someone's grumpy!"

 

"I'd rather be grumpy than stupid," Jackson muttered, glaring back at the basket as Stiles moved into the room and dangled a piece of bread over his shoulder. 

 

"Look," Stiles said, lowering his voice enough so that none of the others would overhear. "You can have mine. I'm still full from earlier, anyway. Plus, I saw a spot last week, a ways to the north, that looked like it'd have ripe blackberries soon. I'll take Scott and we'll go see if they're ready. If so, berries for dessert!"

 

Jackson stared at the offering before shaking his head. "It's fine. We'll just split these five — and a half — amongst ourselves. What about the person Scott said is sleeping in his bed?"

 

Stiles shrugged, looking over curiously. "I dunno, I just assumed it was Kira. Is it not?"

 

"Go check, numb nuts. It could be the fucking Queen herself for all we know."

 

"Oh sure, send _me_ to get my head chopped off!" Stiles muttered, but went across the room anyway to see who Scott had been talking about.

 

And it wasn't Kira. It most _definitely_ wasn't Kira.

 

The man laying in Scott's bed was so incredibly handsome that Stiles instantly felt a rush of jealousy that he was in Scott's bed and not Stiles'. He was as gaunt and underfed as anyone in the Kingdom these days, but his black hair was thick and wavy, his short beard just long enough to tempt Stiles to reach down and run his fingers over that strong jawline. His nose was straight and sharp, and his lips plush and tempting.

 

Yes. The man was _tempting_ like nothing and no one else Stiles had ever seen. 

 

"Not even me?" Lydia asked with a smirk, which made Stiles realize that he'd said at least part of that out loud.

 

"Lydia, my love, your beauty is so transcendent that the stars themselves weep in shame." Stiles made a grandiose gesture with his hand before wrapping it around Lydia's too-thin shoulders and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "However, the moon would be jealous of this man's good looks," Stiles added in an undertone. "Do you think he could be under some sort of spell? I'm willing to provide true love's kiss!"

 

"How on earth you can still speak of such fanciful things, I have no idea." Lydia rolled her eyes at Stiles, then pursed her lips. As she studied the man, her head tilted to the side in thought and her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Does he look… familiar somehow?"

 

Stiles looked back at the man, studying him more closely than before. "He isn't any of the Queen's guard, of that I'm certain. She keeps them in fighting form, much like those ravenous beasts of hers."

 

"True," Boyd said, interjecting into their conversation as he came to look down upon the man as well. He stared for a long moment, unblinking as he methodically cleaned his hands with a wet rag, then turned away and went to stoke the fire, swinging the pot over the flames to start it boiling once more.

 

Stiles watched him with his brows raised high. "That's all you've to say? There's a stranger sleeping in Scott's bed!"

 

Boyd shrugged one shoulder, face relaxed and at ease. "Scott's problem then, seems like. Nothing to do with me."

 

Stiles flailed his hands around, finally shoving them both in an arc toward where Erica was bent over a loose floorboard, stowing their ill-gotten gains. "And what if he wakes and decides to seduce your… your… Erica!"

 

Erica turned at the mention of her name, a wicked smirk pulling her lips wide. "He's too pale and runty for me. I like mine with a bit more meat upon their bones."

 

"Okay, that… is a bit disturbing, considering that the growls your stomach is emitting are enough to frighten away even Queen Katherine's wolves." Stiles paused a moment to spit at the feel of that name in his mouth, and nodded firmly as everyone else in the small cottage followed suit. "Also, you've yet to truly feast your eyes upon him. He's…"

 

"The fairest of them all?" Isaac asked, tossing himself upon his own bed before unwinding the scarf from his throat to place it over his eyes. "Now, shut it. Our new house mate has the right idea. I'm for a nap as well and if anyone — _Stiles_ — dares to wake me, I'll run them through."

 

"With what?" Stiles grumbled under his breath. "The swords are all a league hence."

 

"With my spoon, if necessary." 

 

Stiles cursed Isaac's good hearing, pausing another moment to drink in the beauty of the man who was still, somehow, sleeping, then purposefully stomped as loudly as he could as he left the cottage in search of Scott, who was outside scrubbing his clothes for the next day. 

 

"Hey," he said, dropping into a crouch even as he peered into the forest around them, searching as always for a new threat to add to the dozens hanging over them. 

 

"You all right?" Scott asked, turning to pin Stiles with a look that dared him to answer in anything but truth.

 

Stiles stiffened at the question, trying to deflect with a lightly spoken, "What makes you think I wouldn't be?"

 

"You're picking fights again. Foolish ones, at that. You only do so anymore when you want to taste blood in your mouth." Scott's words were softly spoken, as sympathetic as the deep brown eyes that had won him the heart of a neighboring Lady.

 

Stiles grabbed up a piece of a stick from the ground and began stabbing it into the earth. "Why ask questions you already know the answer to?"

 

"Because you're my best friend. My brother in all but blood. If there is anything I can do to give your heart — your too-quick _mind_ — ease, I will do it. Even if all I can offer is an ear to hear." Scott dropped the ragged, wet cloak from one hand, freeing it to squeeze Stiles behind the neck, much as his father had done to them both when they were mere boys.

 

"I…" Stiles took a bracing breath, lifting his eyes to the bright, aching blue of the sky. "I worry for my father. For your mother. For the prince. For our friends and our countrymen. I worry for you and for me. Always. I feel as though there is nothing left in me but worry. I can barely taste the fire of my conviction to overturn the evil Queen anymore with how much I worry."

 

"So you hide your worry behind a silly smile and jokes. Stiles…" Scott sighed, turning back to his work. "If you cannot show your true face to our friends, at least show it to me. We are all of us worried. The nights grow blacker and more sinister as winter approaches. Something has to give. Either our Resistance succeeds or…"

 

"There is no or," Stiles muttered. "We _must_ succeed. Too many lives depend upon it."

 

Scott caught his gaze, and they shared a moment before Stiles blinked, his face falling into familiar, laughing lines again as footsteps could be heard moving toward the door of the cottage.

 

"Sleeping Beauty awakes," Lydia called lightly.

 

With one last shake of his cloak, Scott pushed to his feet, pulling Stiles up after him, and the two rejoined the others in the cottage. 

 

Curiosity pushed Stiles to the edge of the bed upon which their guest was still reclined, not quite stirred completely from his deep slumber. He was, however, moving restlessly in a manner that suggested he would be waking in moments. Stiles found himself holding his breath as everyone else — bar Isaac, who was, indeed, snoring softly in his own bed — pressed in close. He worried at his lip, wishing for the luxury of more light to shine upon the handsome countenance of the man in Scott's bed.

 

"Who are you?" Stiles murmured, not lifting his gaze from the man, though he felt Boyd shifting his weight beside him. 

 

The dark lashes resting against pale cheeks began to flutter, and then slowly lifted to reveal sleep-hazy eyes more green than blue, more gold than grey. Stiles' breath caught at the sight of them, and he cursed his own bad luck again for being born with such a dull, lifeless color to his own eyes. 

 

The man in the bed gasped and cringed backward a bit in startlement, obviously not having expected to open his eyes to see six curious faces peering down at him. 

 

"You were right, Stilinski," Erica murmured. 

 

Reluctantly, Stiles dragged his gaze away from the man to shoot her a quizzical look. 

 

"He really is quite beautiful. Tempting like a juicy red apple." Erica leered and snapped her teeth, more for Stiles' benefit than any other, but Boyd huffed anyway.

 

"Be careful that the apple you pick isn't poisoned, love," he grumbled in his deep voice.

 

Erica laughed, light and happy, grabbing a handful of Boyd's backside. "You're the only thing I'll be sinking my teeth into, never fear."

 

Stiles leaned away from them, uncaring that it put him closer to the man who was just gaping at them all in something like horror mingled with astonishment. "Cannibalism is still frowned upon in four of the five kingdoms." 

 

"All five, I think," the man in the bed responded, his voice light and gentle, if a bit sleep-rough.

 

Stiles grinned down at him. "I've always had doubts about those in Loompaland. Met a fellow once who'd spent time there, and well…" Stiles shrugged, then changed the subject to one more pressing. "Mind telling us your name and how you came upon us?"

 

"Derek, crown prince of Hale." 

 

Stiles had been watching the man on the bed closely, so when the reply came not from him, but from Boyd, he leapt where he stood, badly startled. Then, considering that name, he spun toward Boyd. "What? _What?_ "

 

Boyd bowed his head, then sank quite gracefully for a man of his breadth and stature to one knee. "My prince," he murmured.

 

Stiles stared, wide-eyed, at the rest of his friends, who followed Boyd's example, one by one at first, then all together in a jumbled mess. All but Isaac, of course.

 

And Stiles, but he was too shocked to do aught but stand on shaking legs.

 

"The prince?" he hissed, hazarding a kick at Boyd. "We've been harboring the bloody _prince_ here, and you didn't think to warn us?"

 

Boyd raised his head long enough to shoot Stiles a quelling look, but it was Lydia who broke the silence that had fallen. 

 

"What need had we of a warning? He is our prince. None here would ever deny him a place to rest." Lydia sank into a deep curtsey, the gesture unmarred by her lack of proper gown. "You are most welcome here, Your Grace."

 

Prince Derek sat up, brushing his hair back from his face and drawing his knees to his chest. "You… you are the family that lives in this cottage? I thought…" He bit his lip and looked around, his eyes flicking toward Stiles and away again quickly. "It doesn't matter what I thought. I apologize for my rudeness. I ate your bread and slept in your bed without leave. It was ill-mannered of me."

 

Stiles speared his fingers into his hair, yanking on it as he allowed every possible, _horrible_ consequence to flow through his mind before he took a deep breath, blew out his frustrations, and dropped his hands to his sides to allow his bow to look somewhat graceful. Of course, raising his head quickly made spots dance before his eyes and he stumbled forward, crashing into the bed and nearly toppling onto their dearly deposed prince. 

 

Oh right. He'd had nothing to eat but a single bite of bread since before the sun rose that morning.

 

"Erm," he said, smiling weakly down at the prince. "Speaking of food… How does a bowl of watery squirrel soup and a crust of bread sound? Your Grace," he tacked on quickly, flushing at Lydia's pained expression. 

 

Prince Derek blinked up at him, mouth dropping open in what looked to be dismay. "Squirrel? You didn't…" He bit his lip again, turning to stare worriedly out the window. 

 

Eyebrows winging upward, Stiles glanced toward the others in the room to see them looking at the prince curiously. Okay, good, he wasn't the only one who didn't understand the prince's sudden sadness. 

 

"I—" Prince Derek took a deep breath and cast a beseeching look upon Boyd, who had gone to check on the soup at the mention of it. "When did you catch the squirrel?"

 

"I caught a brace of them near the castle walls on our way home today," Erica said, one hand on her hip and her eyes narrowed dangerously. Some lingering patriotism buried deep in Stiles' soul had him edging forward, trying to guard Prince Derek from what could turn into the Wrath of Erica.

 

But Prince Derek relaxed at her words, sitting up and pushing the blanket down his legs in preparation for standing. It was then that Stiles — and the rest of them, judging by the shocked noises he could hear — noticed the state of the prince's clothing and skin. 

 

Dirty and disheveled didn't come close to describing his state. His clothing was _ragged_ , his feet more scab than skin, and it appeared as though he had taken a tumble or ten down the side of a mountain. And then been caught in an avalanche, though to Stiles' guilty relief, his face remained unblemished. 

 

"Your Grace," Stiles began, only to be cut off by Scott, who elbowed him out of the way, a bowl of warm, herb-filled water and some strips of cloth in his hands. 

 

"Sire," Scott muttered, kneeling at the prince's feet and gently urging him to lay back once more. "Let me clean these wounds before they fester."

 

The prince stiffened, jerking at Scott's touch. Then he caught himself, casting his eyes down as he eased forward once more. "My apologies," he said in a near whisper. "I seem to have brought nothing but trouble upon your household."

 

"Don't be silly," Scott said, glancing up to shoot Prince Derek a sunny smile. "You've lightened all our hearts today, Your Grace." 

 

"It's true," Jackson said, stepping forward. "At the very least, if you are here, we know that you aren't being subjected to the not-so-merciful mercies of the Evil Queen."

 

Erica affected a sneeze, gaining a light laugh from Lydia. When the prince looked at her, seeming not to know whether to bless her or not, she shrugged. "What? I appear to have caught an allergy to our current ruler. Please, Your Grace, it would do me a world of good for you to overturn that woman. I may breathe freely once more."

 

"And do literally everything else freely as well," Stiles muttered, garnering six loud exclamations of agreement.

 

"If anyone is hungry after all this talk of the Queen," Boyd said in a low rumble, "the soup is ready." He leaned over where Scott was still bathing the prince's feet to offer a chipped bowl to Prince Derek. After he accepted the prince's thanks, he caught Stiles' eye, nodding almost imperceptibly down at the bowl with the familiar chip in the brim. 

 

Stiles allowed his chin to dip slightly in response, having received the message. It was his bowl Boyd had offered their prince, so he would be the last to eat. It was no bother, though. He'd gone longer without food many times in recent years. Too many, as his lean frame could attest.

 

Instead of going to the table to join Lydia, Erica, Jackson, and Boyd, Stiles crossed the narrow space to Isaac's bed and reached down, shaking his shoulder gently. "Food's ready," Stiles murmured softly when Isaac jerked from sleep, a gasp trapping itself in his throat as he looked around wildly, searching for danger. Stiles just stayed where he was, letting his hand on Isaac's shoulder ground his friend and his back block the prince's view of Isaac's distress. 

 

When the fright finally faded from Isaac's eyes, he let loose a tiny shudder and reached up, squeezing Stiles' hand before brushing it off in an attempt to reclaim their more normal interactions. Stiles stepped back, lifting his hands high and feigning fright. Issac just snorted and punched him in the arm, not bothering to check his strength, before he wandered off in the direction of the food. 

 

With everyone else occupied eating, Stiles stepped outside for a quick wash. Dipping a clean cup into a barrel of rainwater, Stiles poured the small bit of water into the basin Scott had been using to wash the mud from his cloak. Then he carefully scrubbed at his fingers with the water and a sliver of soap, remembering Scott's mother's admonishments to them all before she'd been taken to the castle prison to ensure Scott's cooperation in his own indentured servitude. 

 

It was the same for them all, really, though Stiles' father had been taken before any of the rest. It didn't do to overtake a kingdom and allow the remaining loyal guards of the old regime to go free. Stiles sighed and closed his eyes, hanging his head as his fingers fell limp in the now-murky water. He missed his father.

 

When the moment passed and he felt he could draw breath again despite the tight band of anxiety in his chest, he moved his hands once more, splashing soapy water across his face and the back of his neck. It wasn't perfect, but would serve for now, until he had a chance to scout around the cabin. He was overdue for a bath in the clear stream that flowed to the north of the cottage, could smell the day's grime on himself, but with the prince under their roof, he knew he couldn't afford to lower his guard.

 

A scuffling of feet behind him made him turn his head to see Boyd standing in the open doorway. With a sigh, he pushed to his feet and walked up the two rickety steps to the porch, where Boyd stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'll run the perimeter tonight."

 

Stiles looked up at him, a protest on his tongue that died when he saw the flat stare Boyd was leveling him with.

 

"You didn't recognize the prince, Stiles. You, who lived in the castle until you were sixteen." 

 

Panic speared through Stiles once more. "You don't trust me," he whispered, voice low so that none of the others could hear.

 

"I trust you with the lives of everyone I know and love. But you've barely slept in weeks. Go eat, then rest. We need you clear headed, not dopey with exhaustion. And don't think I missed the way you nearly fainted earlier. I left my bread for you. _Eat_."

 

Stiles would have protested, but Boyd pushed past him and faded into the shadows that were creeping toward the cottage with the approaching darkness. When his stomach rumbled in protest of its emptiness, Stiles scowled down at it, betrayed at having Boyd's lecture underscored by his own body. With a sigh, he shuffled into the cottage and made straight for the bowl of soup Boyd had left to cool for him. He stuffed the first spoonful into his mouth, moaning happily as the flavors burst across his tongue. 

 

Boyd worked miracles with the few items they were able to dig from the earth or trade for in the village. This time they'd been blessed with three entire potatoes, a handful of turnips, and a carrot as well as various greens from the forest itself, though Boyd had cut up and planted one of the potatoes in hopes of adding the root vegetable to their small, scraggly garden. But with the addition of the squirrels, the soup was sufficiently filling, leaving Stiles feeling happily stuffed, like a Christmas goose of old. 

 

When he was finished, not even a drip of soup remaining in the bottom of his bowl, Stiles barely had the energy to wash his few dishes before he stumbled toward his bed. He didn't even remember laying down, sleep overtaking him before his head could touch his pillow.

~*~

Derek woke early, startling upright at the scrape of feet against the wooden floor of the cottage and then startling more at the unfamiliar surroundings before the events of the previous day returned to his sluggish brain. He stared around himself, taking in the hodgepodge of furniture once more, then flushed when he noticed that the boy who'd cleaned and dressed his feet the previous day was being shaken awake from his spot on the floor near the hearth and guided to a narrow bed against the wall.

 

The one moving around so early was the boy who'd protested his presence yesterday. Not that Derek could blame him; Katherine's cruelty would know no end for anyone caught harboring him. And these people had done much more than harbor him, giving him generous helpings of their food they couldn't possibly afford, seeing to his wounds, and allowing him to take one of their beds. The gratitude that flooded him was mingled heavily with guilt, a guilt that pushed him to standing.

 

The other boy whipped his head around, pinning Derek with a look that was far too sharp and calculating for such an early hour. Then his features softened and he edged quietly around the beds between them to catch Derek by the elbow, allowing Derek to lean heavily on him. When they were out of the small cottage, the other boy shut the door carefully and quietly, then turned to Derek and murmured, "The outhouse is just past the first few trees. You could ride on my back, if you need."

 

Derek's eyebrows winged upward, and he tried not to scoff out loud at that. The boy was thin, much leaner than Derek, and though they were almost of a height, Derek easily stood an inch or two taller. He'd crush the boy under his own weight.

 

And though he hadn't meant to be rude, the boy obviously sensed his disbelief, because he rolled his eyes and muttered, "I'm stronger than I look. I can carry you a few yards."

 

Casting his eyes downward, Derek shook his head. "That's all right. I can walk. I should, in fact, to keep my feet from stiffening."

 

"You could also stay off them and allow them to heal, but what do I know?" The boy jerked upright, cast him a wide-eyed look, and burst out with, "Your Grace."

 

"I haven't been a prince since the night Katherine killed my family. You can call me Derek."

 

The boy stilled then turned to Derek with a look of profound intensity. "You _are_ a prince. You're _our_ prince, and always will be our prince. We fight for you, Sire. Don't stop fighting for us."

 

Derek's lips parted, searching the boy's eyes before the boy seemed to grow uncomfortable and stepped back, turning to offer Derek his arm again. Struggling for something to say, Derek finally settled on, "What's your name?" as the boy carefully led him down the few steps and into the darkened forest that was slowly being burnished with shades of gold as the rising sun cut weakly through the dense growth.

 

The boy flushed, coughing lightly. "My apologies, Your Grace. I fear we've all forgotten our manners these past few years. I'm Stiles, the son of John Stilinski."

 

Derek jerked, mouth dropping open in surprise. "Your father…"

 

"Captain of the Guard, yes."

 

"He saved us," Derek whispered. "He saved Laura and I, that night. He was distraught, because the guard he'd posted hadn't been able to save our parents, but he was quick enough to save us. Hid us in the tunnels and fought for us until he was overcome by sheer numbers and brought down by Gerard's men."

 

"He survived his wounds," Stiles said, one corner of his mouth hitching up, though his eyes didn't show the happiness they should at those words. "I am occasionally able to get word from Old Deaton, the physician. He treats the prisoners as well as he's able, though that woman merely keeps them alive to ensure our obedience." He gestured back toward the cottage, where the others were still, presumably, sleeping.

 

Derek thought about that, turning Stiles' words over in his head as he quickly relieved himself in the privacy of the outhouse. When he was finished, he pushed the door open, only to find Stiles staring intently into the forest to the south. Thunder rumbled, causing Derek to look up, peering through the branches and greenery above his head to see nothing but blue sky.

 

Stiles grabbing his hand made him look back down, just in time to see the drawn, serious lines of Stiles' face nearly crack when he whispered harshly, "It's time to run again, Your Grace."

 

And then Stiles turned and pulled, tugging him along fast and faster still, branches slapping at them lightly. But Derek noticed that for all there was no path to follow, Stiles twisted and turned nimbly enough to leave not even a trace of broken branches behind him, nothing to show the path they were fleeing down. 

 

When Derek started to feel a stitch in his side, when his screaming feet felt as though they could carry him no further, Stiles finally slowed to a halt, dragging Derek into the hollowed-out trunk of a tree and plastering a hand to his mouth. Derek watched as Stiles closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as the boy quieted his own breathing, obviously straining his ears to listen for the sound of pursuit.

 

Derek realized then what he hadn't heard before. "No howls," he breathed, drawing Stiles' attention. "If they were from Katherine, they didn't have her beasts with them, or we'd have heard their howling."

 

Stiles stared at him, his expressive face twisting with his thoughts before he shook his head. "We can't afford to chance it. The only people in the kingdom who still have horses are her soldiers. If by chance it wasn't her soldiers, it still could have been someone who'd sell you to her. Most of your people remain loyal, but hunger and fear can wear at even the staunchest heart."

 

"What do you suggest we do?" Derek asked, feeling every one of his aches and pains. "I can't keep running forever."

 

"There's a small shack, not far from here. It's well hidden; we watched it for more than a year before we started using it for…" Stiles slanted him a look, his mobile mouth turning down at the corners before he murmured, "storage."

 

Derek curled his hands into fists, feeling the ache rising from his feet before he dipped his chin in a nod. "Can we defend it?"

 

Stiles tilted his head, eyes going light with a humor that brightened all of his features. "Oh yes, it's quite defensible."

 

Derek narrowed his eyes, but asked no further questions beyond, "And what of the others?"

 

Helping him out of the tree, Stiles shrugged, unconcerned. "No one will be surprised to find them living in our cottage, least of all the Queen's new guards. It's well known that we share it, since Scott's mother was taken prisoner for practicing midwifery in the village."

 

"And you?" Derek asked, wincing as he trod upon a small stone hidden among the soft flooring of old, fallen leaves.

 

"They'll come up with a story for my absence. This wouldn't be the first time one of us wasn't present when the guards came through to check that we were being properly subjugated under Queen Katherine's rule." Stiles spit at the name, narrowly missing Derek, then muttered a red-cheeked apology.

 

Derek just shook his head, brushing it off. He'd spit too, if he had any moisture in his mouth to do so.

 

Stiles' evaluation of 'not far from here' turned out to be a very generous one, as Derek soon learned. They walked most of the morning, crossing what seemed to be every stream and brook in the kingdom — just in case — stopping only occasionally to drink their fill and chew on leaves that Stiles deemed safe. The highlight of the morning was when they stumbled across a patch of wild berries that were fat and black, gleaming in the light. They plucked every berry, staining their lips and fingers a lurid purple color as they ate their fill before lining their pockets with the remainder.

 

"I wish we could chance marking this spot," Stiles murmured, before smacking himself in the face, leaving a bright stain upon his cheek. "Actually, there's no reason we _shouldn't_. If I were out alone foraging for food, I'd definitely mark this place!" Then he crushed a precious handful of the berries and painted the trees around the spot, marking the location for later. Turning to Derek, he said, "If anyone approaches us, I want you to hide. Don't worry for me, just hide, as quickly and fully as possible. I'm no threat, not on my own, and I have food to show for my morning's efforts. No one will question why I'm looking for food, and if it's taken from me, we still have what's in your pockets to survive the rest of the day."

 

Derek hesitated, wanting to argue against allowing Stiles to place himself in danger, but Stiles set his jaw and leaned forward, glaring until Derek sighed and acquiesced. "Don't make me regret your bravery, Sir Stiles."

 

"'Sir?' I'm no knight, Your Grace."

 

"You're as much a knight as I am a prince," Derek said, lifting one eyebrow and crossing his arms over his chest, daring Stiles to disagree.

 

"In that case, Sire, I have a list of grievances to offer with regard to how you lodge, arm, and mount your knights." Stiles grinned, obviously proud of his quip, and made to step around Derek.

 

But Derek had been raised with quick-tongued siblings, and though the past few years had been difficult, he'd forgotten neither how to spar with words nor swords. He waited until Stiles was lifting his foot before he murmured, just loud enough to reach Stiles' ears, "I've little practice in mounting my knights, but if you're agreeable, we can discuss it." And then he grinned, feeling the curl of happiness through his stomach for the first time in _years_ , as Stiles tripped over plain air and crashed into a bunch of prickly brambles.

 

"You," Stiles sputtered, eyes wide. "You…" And then he tossed back his head, long neck on display, and laughed uproariously. "I can't believe you said that!"

 

"And neither, I think, will anyone with whom you might wish to share the story." Derek offered a hand down to Stiles, who took it and climbed gingerly to his feet, brushing himself off ruefully.

 

"You're a devil, Your Grace."

 

"Better the devil you know."

 

"Amen to that."

~*~

They were able to make it to the shack by mid afternoon, but Stiles asked Prince Derek to hide deep in the underbrush a good distance away to allow him the opportunity to scout around the shack and check for interlopers. Creeping upon the rickety structure, he looked for disturbance in the leaves surrounding the branch-strewn building, overturning a few to check the soil for footprints.

 

When the only tracks he could find were those of the four-footed variety, Stiles eased the door of the shack open, pressing it back to the outer wall and then allowing it to sag on its rope hinges. Inside, he looked under the floorboards, sighing with relief to find that their cache of weapons was still hidden in the secret compartments they'd built. Most of the resistance's weapons were readily available: sharpened pitchforks, hoes, sometimes just wooden broomsticks, sharpened to a fine point that could be easily stripped of their straw. But here there were swords and arrows, hardy bows made under cloak of darkness and smuggled deep into the woods to a location known but to a few. 

 

Of their group, only Stiles and Scott knew of this shack, a building they'd stumbled upon whilst foraging one day and had likely once been a place to hang and store meat back when the King still hunted these woods. Now it was near falling down, barely fit for shelter, but it would be enough.

 

Enough for now. Enough until Scott could reach them or send word.

 

And if word never came, Stiles would put his smuggling skills to use and bring Prince Derek to the next kingdom or the one further away. They'd travel years if necessary, until the prince reached a safe haven. 

 

With a sigh, Stiles replaced the boards and went outside, circling around a bit, listening to the sounds of the forest. The birds overhead continued to twitter to one another, the squirrels were busily gathering nuts for their own dinner. After a while, Stiles felt it safe to go to the prince and help him move to the shack. 

 

When Prince Derek was resting somewhat comfortably upon a pile of old wheat sacks, Stiles knelt at his feet and looked up. "I'm not as good at this as Scott. Fair warning."

 

The prince just grunted and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes as Stiles unwrapped his abused feet, clucking his tongue over the broken, bleeding scabs. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but the forced march certainly hadn't been beneficial to his healing. Stiles sighed and removed the wraps completely, setting them aside to wash when he went for water. 

 

And speaking of that… "I have to leave you for a while," he said. 

 

Prince Derek's eyebrows lifted in question though his eyes remained closed. 

 

"I must go fetch some water and find something for us to eat. Those berries in your pocket will make a fine dessert, but won't provide the sort of sustenance you need for true healing. I'll be back soon. You rest."

 

"And if someone comes?" the prince asked, his voice soft and worn.

 

"Stay here, make no noise." Stiles worried his lip, then sighed. "There are loose floorboards near the back wall. There should be room to hide yourself beneath them, but you'll have to move what's there first."

 

"What _is_ there?"

 

"The means to take back your kingdom, Your Grace," Stiles said, patting the prince on his knee. "Rest. I'll return shortly."

 

With their secret revealed, Stiles saw no reason not to arm himself with bow and arrow in the event he came across a fat rabbit. Anything larger would be too much work to dress and would require a fire that might draw unwanted attention. Three arrows and a tightly strung bow were his only companions as he set off from the shack, looking behind him occasionally just to reassure himself that the shack wasn't being overrun by Queen Katherine — _spit_ — or her bloody hounds.

 

Once he was beyond sight of the shack, he hurried his pace, near-running through the forest on the way to the last stream they'd crossed. He didn't want to leave the prince alone too long and also knew that the prince's exhaustion had as much to do with hunger and thirst as it did with lack of sleep. 

 

As he raced through the brush, he nocked an arrow, holding the bow at the ready in case he startled any creatures. It was a good thing he did, because close to the stream, he startled a flock of pheasant and was able to bring one down. With a muffled shout of accomplishment, Stiles tied it to his belt and continued on, plucking wild herbs as he went to rub into the fowl's meat.

 

Boyd had taught him well.

 

Coming to the bank of the stream, Stiles looked around, finally spotting a likely branch that lay among the bracken. Working quickly, he stripped the bark from it, then used the pointed tip of a sharp arrow to hollow it out, making a crude pitcher. This he dipped into the clear water, then brought it to his lips and drank deeply. It held more than enough to fill his belly with the sweet water, so he filled it again and set off, back to the shack. 

 

After offering the water to the prince, Stiles went outside again and gathered as much dry tinder as he could find, as well as moss and grass, bits of bark and abandoned bird nests. These he gathered together, then withdrew a bit of flint from his pocket. Striking the flint against a nearby stone, he was able to work up a small spark which set his small handful of tinder smoking thickly before a tiny flame began to lick upward from it. He fed more kindling to it until he had a manageable blaze and then piled rocks around it.

 

Going back into the shack, he lifted the floorboard again, rooting carefully through the assorted weapons until he came across a brace of daggers. These he withdrew, handing one to the prince without a word of explanation. None was needed.

 

The other he brought back outside with him, cutting hunks of meat from the pheasant he'd shot and wrapping them in herbs before placing them upon the glowing rocks, listening with a happily grumbling belly as they hissed and sizzled. The smell of the cooking meat brought the prince out into the twilight of the evening.

 

Smiling across the fire at Stiles, he gestured to the pheasant and said, "Good work."

 

Stiles shrugged, but Prince Derek's approval warmed him far more than a mere fire ever could. 

 

"What will you do?" the prince asked as Stiles turned the meat, hissing quietly as he burned his fingers.

 

"What do you mean?" Stiles looked up from his work, breath catching anew as the firelight chased the shadows from the Prince's face, highlighting his beauty. 

 

"If we can unseat Katherine—"

 

" _When_ ," Stiles stressed. "When we unseat her. And we will."

 

The prince stared at him for a heartbeat, then two, before he lowered his gaze to the fire, nodding slowly. "And when we do? What will you do then?"

 

Stiles blinked, considering that. "I… I don't know. I hadn't considered that before. My dreams always just stopped at the idea of Katherine's head rolling through the village square."

 

"That's…"

 

"Too bloodthirsty for you?"

 

Prince Derek shrugged. "A comforting thought, actually. Some people just need to die."

 

"Hear, hear," Stiles murmured, removing a bit of meat from the stone and unwrapping it quickly to check that it was done. He pulled it apart and then placed some on a flat stone he'd found, knowing it would leech much of the heat of the fire from the meat. This he handed to the prince, who waved it off.

 

"You caught our dinner. It's only right that you should have the first bit."

 

Stiles sent him a flat stare. "Sire—"

 

" _Derek_. Please. Here and now, let us pretend, just for a night, that I am not a prince. Let us speak freely and not watch our words and…" The prince glanced away, his jaw setting. "Can we not simply be two men sharing a meal under the stars?"

 

Stiles considered him, taking in the slope of the prince's shoulders, the defeat etched into the unhappy curve of his mouth. "Well, _Derek_ ," he said, letting a smile twist his own lips into a shape that no longer felt natural, "if it's romance you were after, why didn't you say so?"

 

"Idiot," Derek huffed, but took the bit of meat that Stiles offered him and popped it into his mouth. "And we have time now. Consider what you would like."

 

"I think I would like… to do nothing." Stiles smiled again, easier this time, as the prince — as _Derek_ — let out a sharp bark of laughter at that. "I would like to be a lazy arse, and allow servants to do everything for me. I would like to sleep upon a bed of feathers and never move from it. I would like to be carried from place to place and never walk again."

 

"I think I should like that too," Derek murmured. "No responsibilities, no running. No fear. Just existing for a moment in a bubble of nothingness. But I fear it would grow dull before long."

 

"Excitement is highly overrated." Stiles deftly removed the rest of the meat from the hot stones before snuffing out the fire with dirt. He'd scatter the ashes in the morning and hide their tracks as well as he was able.

 

"While that's certainly true," Derek said, laying back on the soft ground, his eyes reflecting the few stars that shone through the canopy of trees, "I think I should like, instead, to live my life in a library. I could read, day and night, devour every book I lay hand upon."

 

Stiles nodded, chewing slowly. "That sounds quite enjoyable as well. I appreciate that we're both lazy arses at our core."

 

"Isn't everyone?"

 

Stiles wrinkled his nose. "You didn't spend enough time with Lydia, obviously. Or Jackson, though that could just be Lydia's influence."

 

"Are they busy bodies?"

 

Considering this, Stiles took the hollowed branch from Derek and lifted it to his lips. The water tasted a bit wooden after being in the branch so long, but it wasn't bad. "I wouldn't say that, really. They're just driven. If you ever need someone to sit on your small council, Lydia would be my suggestion. Actually, you could install her as the actual ruler of the kingdom and just be her puppet."

 

"If I'm aware of her manipulations, wouldn't that make her my puppet?"

 

Stiles sat up suddenly, glancing around in fear. "Shh," he hissed, barely able to contain his laughter. "She might _hear_ you."

 

Then he looked over and caught the true fear in Derek's eyes at his sudden movement and it was as if cold water had been dashed in Stiles' face. "Your Grace," he murmured, moving closer to where Derek was looking around wildly. "I'm sorry, sire," Stiles whispered, hesitantly taking the prince into his arms and holding the other man as he shook. "I didn't think. It's my greatest failing."

 

"It's fine," Derek murmured into his shoulder, then pinched his side when Stiles scoffed gently. "And I thought you weren't going to call me that anymore this evening. You're terrible at playing pretend."

 

Stiles drew back from Derek, cocking his eyebrows in disbelief even as he brushed a bit of Derek's overlong hair off his forehead, moving it so he could check the sheen of Derek's eyes to see if the panic was still riding him. Instead his fingers slowed as he noticed Derek staring back at him from inches away.

 

It was as if time suddenly stopped, but also as if the stars above were whirling past too fast. Derek's lips parted and Stiles found himself blinking at them stupidly, leaning in as if drawn with an invisible thread and —

 

"Stiles!" A voice called, and the birds in the vicinity went silent before abruptly taking flight.

 

Stiles flinched back, hand going to his belt where he'd stowed the dagger after cutting apart the pheasant. Then the voice registered, and Stiles nearly sagged with relief, jumping to his feet. "Scott?" he hissed, stepping quickly forward and motioning at Derek with his free hand to hide. 

 

Just in case.

 

But Scott was alone, and the look on his face was so profoundly, intensely overjoyed, that Stiles nearly stumbled back from him when they finally met in a friendly embrace. "Stiles!" Scott blurted, his breath thin and raspy. "I've great news! Where is—?"

 

"It's all right, Derek," Stiles called, already having ascertained that none followed his friend. "We're safe."

 

Derek eased out of the shadows, though they seemed to remain on his face. Although maybe that was simply the way he'd drawn himself back up, a blank mask over his expression as he studied the way Stiles and Scott stood so close to one another. 

 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles walked to him and tugged on his arm, urging him back into the shack even as he beckoned Scott to follow. When they were all convened, Stiles turned to Scott in the darkness of the shack and whispered, "What news?"

 

"The Yukimuras," Scott hissed back. "They sent word. Their soldiers were the ones you heard this morning, but my tardiness is due to the fact that I wanted to verify their news before I came for you. They… Their kingdom is sending soldiers. They heard what happened to the princess and— Oh, pardon, Your Grace," Scott said, and even though Stiles couldn't see him, he knew his friend was hanging his head in shame.

 

"Honestly, Scott, keep going!"

 

"Oh! Right, well. Soldiers are marching on the kingdom to help overthrow Queen Katherine," they both spit at the name, "and the villagers are ready. They're assembling in the square at noon tomorrow."

 

"Noon?" Stiles asked, worrying his lip. 

 

"Yes, we'll have to leave before dawn to get there, but if we walk straight to the village, we should be there by the time the battle is joined. The villagers are going to flank Katherine's soldiers as they meet the Yukimura army, trapping the mercenaries between two sides."

 

"And Katherine?" Derek asked, moving so close his breath brushed Stiles' cheek, causing Stiles to gasp quietly.

 

"She'll be as unprotected as we've ever known her to be. There are no guarantees, but we'll never have a better opportunity and… Sire…"

 

"I have to take my kingdom back or risk losing it to the Yukimuras if they decide to fight for it."

 

"They won't," Scott rushed to say, certainty ringing in his tone. 

 

"They could." Stiles' voice was firm, hard with knowledge remembered from his youth. "It would be within their rights as conquerors. Derek must have reclaimed his throne before they arrive at the castle, or this entire revolution has been for naught."

 

"But—" Scott started, only to be drowned out by Derek's voice cutting through the small room, hard and almost brittle.

 

"He's right. We'll rest for a few hours and then go back. There will be no stopping once we leave here."

 

"Derek, your feet—"

 

"Can heal when Katherine's head rolls across the village square," Derek murmured, almost as if for Stiles' ears only.

 

"Ahem." Scott cleared his throat. "I'll take first watch. With today's events, I don't trust that the Queen won't have her hounds out looking for you. You two rest. Tomorrow will be long and horrible."

 

Stiles sighed and nodded, though no one could see him. He felt his way across the room to where the flour sacks were, and spread them out into as much of a mattress as he could make. "Derek," he called, then turned and bumped into a hard chest. "Oh!"

 

"I'm here," Derek said, his hands gripping Stiles' hips for a moment before falling away. 

 

"Oh, um. I've made you a pallet. You can lay down and…"

 

"Lie with me. We both need rest, and this will serve for us both if we lay on our sides." Derek's voice was too soft, too close in the darkness, startling Stiles' heart into beating double time.

 

"I…"

 

"Consider it a command, if you must. I need you clear-headed for tomorrow." The words sounded so like Boyd's from the previous day that Stiles found himself stretching out on the sacks, turning onto his side as he felt the warm press of Derek's body along his front.

 

"Scott should probably sleep too," Stiles murmured, needing to fill the silence.

 

"Is he your…?" 

 

"Brother, though we share no blood. They all are. Erica and Boyd, Lydia and Jackson and Isaac and Scott. I would die for them. They for me."

 

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Derek said, his voice sounding a bit thick.

 

Without thinking, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek again, drawing him close until their foreheads were pressed together. "We'll avenge them," he promised. "We'll avenge them all."

 

Derek's lashes brushed Stiles' cheek as he closed his eyes, nodding. Snuggling in closer, he moved until his face was pressed to Stiles' throat. "I don't want to go back to real life," he said, the words hot and humid against Stiles' skin. "Today I forgot to be afraid. I forgot to be sad. I want more days like today. Why did it have to end?"

 

Stiles closed his eyes and carded his fingers through Derek's thick hair, no words springing to mind that might offer solace. So he just held his prince, all through the long, dark night.

~*~

Derek slid an exasperated look at Stiles when they were able to travel back to the cottage in the clearing in less than half the time the next morning.

 

Stiles just shrugged sheepishly and muttered, "We might have been followed!"

 

Lips quirking, Derek just shook his head. "My poor feet."

 

"Are you going to whine all day, boys," Erica called, stepping out of the cottage carrying a pike over her shoulder, "or are you going to help me take back our kingdom?" Stiles tossed a sword to her, which she caught easily by the hilt, squealing in girlish glee. "Sweetheart, did I ever tell you you're my favorite?!"

 

"Aww, you don't have to—" Stiles started to say, only to be hushed by Erica, who glared at him before sniffing haughtily.

 

"I was talking to this long, shiny fellow. I love him best, yes I do," she crooned, tilting her head to accept the press of Boyd's lips upon her throat. "Well, maybe not _best_ ," she amended with a cheeky grin before sauntering out into the clearing and greeting Derek with a bow. "Sire," she said, lowering her voice and adopting a serious mien. "I pledge my sword to you. If you will accept me, I will ride by your side into this battle and give my life for yours."

 

"You honor me, my lady," Derek said, momentarily unable to breathe as something hot and fierce swamped him at her words. Words he'd heard spoken in ceremony to his mother and father, but never with such utter intensity as they were now, here in this lowly place with this beautiful, dangerous woman.

 

One by one, the occupants of the cottage stepped forward and offered him their oath, all but Stiles who simply stepped forward and cocked his eyebrows jauntily, nearly slitting his own throat with his sword when he tried to prop it on his shoulder. "Oops, heh. I swear all that too, but I think you understood that already. Let's go lop off the Evil Queen's head, Your Grace," Stiles said, his grin bright and wicked.

 

Derek swallowed down a burst of laughter at Stiles' words, but couldn't deny how grateful he was to Stiles for lightening the moment. It had been close to overwhelming him, but now he felt an answering smile tugging at his lips. 

 

As they trooped off through the forest, the small group of friends surrounding Derek like nothing less than a royal guard, Derek realized that the safety he'd felt the previous night while wrapped tight in Stiles' arms was still there. Safety was one of those things he'd not felt in so long, he almost didn't recognize it, but here it was. 

 

Here, among these people, he felt safe. 

 

He sent a swift and desperate prayer winging upward to the heavens that nothing would happen to any of them. But especially, he prayed, his eyes straying to Stiles only to find Stiles' bright eyes already watching him, especially not Stiles.

~*~

The battle was anticlimactic. Almost as soon as the Yukimura soldiers arrived on Hale lands, Queen Katherine's hired men threw their weapons down and begged quarter. They weren't, they avowed to a man, paid enough for this.

 

So the villagers turned back to the castle, leaving the Yukimura army to sort out Katherine's men, and it was at their head that Derek rode, the swelling tide of his people behind him as they advanced upon the castle. Inside the stone walls, they met much the same situation as the villagers had found at the borders. Even Katherine's castle guard, when met with swords and pointed pitchforks and blazing torches, simply laid down their arms and allowed themselves to be bound.

 

Stiles glanced at Derek in frustration; having prepared himself for battle, he was almost disappointed that there was no fight be be had. But Derek just continued through the castle, face set in harsh lines, shoulders squared and head high like he already wore a heavy crown upon it.

 

Scott bumped Stiles' shoulder and gestured down. "Boyd and I are going to release the prisoners."

 

Stiles hesitated in his march by Derek's side, nearly stumbling. "My father—"

 

"I'll find him," Scott assured him, staring into his eyes as they clasped arms. "I promise that I will find him and bring him to you."

 

Looking back toward Derek, who hadn't paused, Stiles nodded sharply. "Yes, okay."

 

"Protect the prince," Scott said, his lips quirking and eyebrows wiggling in a way that normally just made Stiles groan. 

 

But today it sent warmth to his cheeks and he pushed at Scott awkwardly. "Be quiet, you," he muttered before hurrying to catch up with Derek.

 

Derek slipped his hand into Stiles' for a brief moment, squeezing it warmly before he withdrew his hand a little uncertainly. Scoffing, Stiles grabbed Derek's hand back, linking their fingers. He'd let go when necessary, but for now there wasn't anyone around who'd begrudge them this, and he wanted to hang on for as long as he was able. 

 

Stiles was a realist; he knew nothing could come of this. Derek was royalty, would soon be Stiles' king if it all played out right, but Stiles wanted whatever he could get for as long as he could get it.

 

Derek seemed to relax slightly, his thumb swirling over Stiles' skin. "Don't—" Derek whispered, then cut himself off.

 

Turning his head, Stiles sent Derek a questioning look. 

 

"Don't do anything foolish. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you. I've lost too many already."

 

Stiles swallowed roughly, but nodded, squeezing Derek's fingers lightly. "I'll make that promise to you if you make the same to me."

 

"I swear it," Derek said, pinning him with an almost desperate look. "We're almost there."

 

The doors to the throne room loomed large and almost threatening at the end of the corridor. Stiles took a bracing breath and dropped Derek's hand, leaving him free to draw his weapon. And then they were there, and Erica was pushing the doors open, striding into the throne room like an avenging angel.

 

The sound of swords clearing sheaths was loud in the room, and the battle was quickly joined. While the soldiers at the border and the ones inside the keep had been cowards, ready to lay down arms rather than risk their own skin, these were the hardened soldiers of Katherine's personal guard, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.

 

The battle was joined.

 

Stiles twisted and danced, slicing here and there and avoiding each swipe of a blade with a grace borne of desperation even as he knocked aside blows aimed at Derek's back, at his head and neck. And even as he fought, he noticed that the numbers in the hall seemed to be swelling, with more fighting against Katherine's soldiers by the minute.

 

"Son!" a voice called, then, "Watch your flank, Stiles!"

 

Stiles whirled, knocking aside a blade that had been descending almost as an afterthought as he locked eyes with his father. _His father!_ "Dad!" he shouted, then fought with renewed vigor, cutting through the few of Katherine's soldiers that remained between himself and the father he hadn't seen since the night the Argents started their bloody campaign.

 

When they were close enough, Stiles launched himself at his father, catching him up in a quick, hard hug before they had to break apart to defend themselves once more. They fought back to back, their motions so fluid and in sync that Stiles himself could hardly believe they'd been apart. Stiles had learned swordplay at his father's knee, though, which became immediately apparent to all who came against them. They drove Katherine's guard back, taking out one, then another, then another.

The added numbers of the freed prisoners, led by Scott and Boyd, set the battle in their favor and soon there were only a few swords still engaged, though her dwindling support only seemed to make Katherine swell with rage. The queen stood upon a dais near the thrones, short sword in hand and skin pale with the anger that shook through her.

 

"You dare come against me?!" she screeched, pointing a long finger at Derek. "You flea bitten mongrel, how _dare_ you raise arms against your queen. I'll have your head! I'll—urk." Katherine's words were cut off suddenly as a sword stabbed her through the belly, yanking upward until she went boneless, slumping forward dead.

 

Stiles stared at the tableau, unable to believe his eyes. " _Erica?_ "

 

Derek's voice broke the silence that fell after Stiles' shocked utterance. "You… you killed her."

 

"I pledged my sword to you. And my sword was closest, so… Oh. My apologies," Erica drawled, narrowing her eyes as she used the hem of her filthy shirt to wipe clean her blade. "I had no idea anyone was interested in her drivel." Sheathing her sword, she glanced up, meeting Stiles' eyes, then Derek's. "I could attempt to wake her?"

 

Even Katherine's hired soldiers seemed to flinch as Erica raised her foot to nudge Katherine in the ribs.

 

"No? Very well, then. Stop gawking and help me get these bodies out of here before they foul the place up."

 

Stiles stepped lightly across the room until he was at Derek's side, then turned to Derek with wide eyes. "If my father no longer feels capable of leading your guard..."

 

"My thoughts align with yours," Derek murmured, even as they watched Boyd sweep Erica up into his large arms and kiss her like their souls were merging through their mouths.

 

And then, as they watched longer, Stiles cleared his throat. "I, erm. I apologize for my friends. They tend to get carried away. A bit."

 

Derek turned to him, raising his eyebrows. "A bit?"

 

"All right. If they shed clothing, you'll have to pardon them. And probably just leave the room because once Erica's shirt comes off, there's no stopping them."

 

"We should probably leave then," Derek said, his expression pained. "I have excellent peripheral vision and—"

 

"Yes! All right!" Stiles shouted, half-desperate. "Help me grab a body?"

~*~

With so many willing helpers, they made quick work of clearing out the filth of Katherine and her men from the throne room and let the Kingdom know via the cheerful tolling of the chapel bells that it was free of her tyranny at last. The age of the Argents had passed and a new day had begun.

 

Boyd managed to create a meal worthy of their victory with the help of the kitchen staff, as well as Jackson and Stiles, who he enlisted to chop potatoes and shred herbs for stuffing into the hens. And Derek had a chance to speak privately with John Stilinski, offering him the position of Sheriff of all the Hale lands… almost as much so he could promote Erica to his Captain of the Guard as to reward Stilinski for his sacrifice and devotion to duty.

 

And then he was able to be alone with Stiles for the first time in… well, actually it had been less than a day since the last time he'd been alone with Stiles, but rather a lot had transpired, so it seemed more momentous an occasion than it probably was. Momentous enough, in fact, that the first thing Derek did was take a leaf from Boyd's book and pull Stiles into a long, heated kiss. A kiss that spoke of passion and longing and _more_... A kiss that promised a future.

A promise that Derek repeated with his lips once they were no longer quite so occupied with Stiles' tempting mouth. "Please marry me."

 

But the words made Stiles still and pull back, heartbreak in his expressive features. "Derek, you told me earlier not to do anything foolish, and now it is time for me to repeat those words to you. You can't do this. We've known each other barely two days. You can't throw away all of this," he gestured around them to the castle and the people in it; to Derek's kingdom. "Not for me. I'm not worth it."

 

Derek looked at him, staring into Stiles eyes, honey-gold and bright from the light of all the candles in the room. "You're worth this and more. I could own the entire earth, and you'd still be worth more. As for the length of time I've known you? Stiles, in the time I've known you, I've seen you sacrifice everything dear to you for a virtual stranger. I've seen how brave you are, how strong and capable. I've watched you with those you love, with those you count as family and I _want_ that. I want you to be that to me. I know as much as I need to know about the man you are."

 

"You really, truly don't!" Stiles tore at his hair with both hands, eyes looking slightly wild. "Two days, Derek. _Two_."

 

"Then allow me the opportunity to learn more, at least," Derek begged, slightly exasperated. He caught Stiles' cheeks in his hands and leaned forward, pressing their mouths together gently, then more firmly as Stiles sagged against him. He staggered backward under Stiles' weight until his legs hit a chair and he sunk into it, pulling Stiles onto his lap.

 

Their kiss grew, deepened, and then gentled again. Derek pulled back and pressed tiny kisses to Stiles' cheek, moving unerringly toward his ear, feeling the shivers that action sent coursing through Stiles until even his toes were curling against the backs of Derek's calves. 

 

"I can't believe we're doing this on the throne," Stiles whispered in between kisses, sounding somehow both scandalized and delighted. 

 

Derek blinked, then craned his head around to check and see that they were, indeed, defiling his father's throne. Derek wanted to feel badly about that, but all he could think was… 

 

"We can do more than _this_ on the throne if you marry me," Derek promised, grinding up and grinning when Stiles' eyes went dazed and the color in his cheeks deepened. "Though I think you _have_ to marry me now. I've taken horrible advantage of your virtue."

 

"If you truly worried for my virtue, you'd be duelling my right hand. After all, it's done far worse to my virtue than you have."

 

Derek buried his suddenly-hot face against Stiles' chest, fighting back a smile when he heard Stiles' knowing cackles fill the air around them. _This_ was the person with whom he was entrusting his own future happiness? Squinting back up at Stiles, Derek could only chuckle softly, entirely at ease with that thought. "Was that payback for what I said to you in the forest?"

 

"Beautiful _and_ smart. I may decide to keep you yet." Stiles leered down at him, waggling his eyebrows lasciviously.

 

"If it sways you at all," Derek murmured, unable to stop himself from pressing a kiss to Stiles' throat, Stiles' skin soft beneath his lips, "I have servants who would be honored to wait upon you hand and foot and allow you to be a lazy arse for the rest of your days. You could spend the rest of your life in bed. _My_ bed."

 

Stiles tossed his head back, laughing bright and loud until the sound echoed back to them in the spacious hall. "I've seen the beds in this place," Stiles whispered through chuckles. "They're entirely too large. If we shared one, I'd never find you."

 

"I'll tell you a secret," Derek said, feeling a smile tugging at his own lips. "When I first found your cottage, I thought children lived there because your beds were so small. Children or just very small people."

 

"And now?" Stiles challenged, eyebrows raised high.

 

"And now I want to order all mattresses large enough for more than one person to be banned from the kingdom forever."

 

"That's one way to promote population growth." Stiles sighed, winding his arms around Derek's neck. "You know I can't allow you to throw away your kingdom for me. Not after everything we've gone through to return it to you."

 

"I don't have to throw it away, idiot. I'm the king. If I want to marry you, who will naysay me?"

 

"The people won't like it." Stiles worried the hair at the back of Derek's neck with restless fingers, squirming in Derek's lap as his eyes went far away and unfocused. 

 

Derek's hands stilled his hips, even as he cast a pained expression at Stiles that set his cheeks blooming with color again. "The _people_ have just experienced two years of oppression under a truly evil woman and her cruel father before her. Do you honestly think they'll _care_?"

 

"Love doesn't always conquer all, Derek. Sometimes you have to—"

 

"Shut up," Derek muttered, tugging Stiles closer, his mouth far too tempting. "I'm the king now. And my first command as king is that we both get to live happily ever after."

 

The end.


	2. Gifsets by Michicant123

  
  
  
  


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	3. Art by AnnoyinglyCute

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**Author's Note:**

> You can find us all on tumblr: [AnnoyinglyCute](http://annoyinglycute.tumblr.com), [Eeyore9990](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com), and [Michicant123](http://michicant123.tumblr.com)


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